Feelers (28 page)

Yet looking at the police car blocking the highway entrance and the other police car that slid in behind me, I felt like I would never leave Brooklyn, that I had been an idiot to think that I could escape with the money. At the same time, I was beginning to feel indignant. You know, Father Gomez, I found that money fair and square. Well, at least the first batch of money. That was legally mine. The entire contents of the home had been turned over to me in a legally binding document. Inasmuch as those idiots crashed into Storage Hut and burned my money, they were liable for my money. True, there was a lot more money now, but at least eight hundred grand of it I should be allowed to keep.

I should never have gone to see Dexter. Had I not, I would be in New Jersey, and home free.

A plain brown sedan pulled in front of the Camaro, a police light flashing on the dash.

I opened my door and rose slowly from the Camaro. I could hear all my joints creaking with dread. Two men in wrinkled suits emerged from the brown car.

Ruez came from the passenger side. He wore a grin on his face and a badge on his belt.

Pool slouched on the driver’s side of the sedan, looking like a prep school truant. He was holding a piece of paper. “We have a warrant to search your apartment and car.”

Someone said, and I think it was me: “Can I ask why, officer?”

“You can ask.” Ruez raised an eyebrow doubtfully. “We already went to your apartment. Landlord said you’re moving out. Can we ask why?”

I narrowed my eyes, feeling indignant again, tempted to be a
smart-ass and answer as he had. “It is a free country. I am tired of Brooklyn, especially after all the bad things that have happened to my friends. Like Dexter, and Frog and Hugo and Pete the Prick.”

“We saw the apartment. Empty.” Ruez nodded at the Camaro. “Now let’s see the car.”

I did not move.

Pool waved the warrant. “We can smash the car windows to gain access if you want.”

“It is not locked,” I said, but I think his idea was that if I gave them any trouble they would smash the windows to punish me.

The two detectives pulled all my pathetic belongings out onto the hot roadway shoulder, between our two cars. The patrolmen from the other two cars were directing traffic. After Ruez and Pool finished pawing through each bag, each box, each container, I put them back in the car.

“Now here.” Ruez tapped the car’s trunk.

Mechanically, I slid the key in the lock, and the trunk popped open.

Ruez and Pool exchanged a glance when they saw the four matching Scottish suitcases, and then looked at me. My expression was blank. Nothing for me to do except stand by and watch.

They groaned as they pulled all four out and laid them on the macadam. Ruez and Pool each knelt next to a suitcase and unzipped them.

Then they opened them.

“What’s this?” Ruez’s eyebrows were raised.

Pool’s brow was knit. “You wanna explain this, Mr. Martinez?”

“What is there to explain? You see what is there. Is it a crime?”

Ruez held up one of the books and read the spine. “
History of Spain, 1300–1600
?”

Pool dug through the books in his suitcase. “These are all Spanish history books.”

Ruez unzippered another bag. “You have four suitcases of history books?”

“You can see that for yourself, officer.” I was careful not to smile. Cops can get angry when they look foolish; no percentage in making them more so. “Was there something you were looking for?”

They stood, both of them with hands on hips, their guns visible at their sides.

Ruez heaved a sigh of frustration. “You cleaned the Trux place. Word is out you found money there. The money was likely stolen.”

“In this business, there are many rumors. I did not find any money there. I just cleaned the house.”

They were squinting at me, waiting.

I wanted to turn suspicion away from me, somehow. I needed them to let me go so I could drive up that ramp onto the Belt Parkway and vanish forever.

The Belt Parkway. The route Fanny and Speedy were going to use to escape, the idiots.

Then, the dark clouds on my brain were parted by a promising, sparkling idea, like a beam of sunshine in a thunderstorm.

“I do not know what you want me to tell you, officers, but I am happy to help in any way that I can. If there was money in the Trux house, I would likely have found it . . . well, I suppose my foreman Gonzales could have found it. I left him alone in the Trux house to run an errand. When I returned to the house
there was a woman, Trux’s niece, Fanny Trux. But she was just there to collect some boxes of old clothes.”

Ruez and Pool exchanged a glance.

“Did you look in the boxes?”

“Well, no, the house was full of junk. The more I did not have to haul away, the better. Are you trying to tell me the boxes were . . . that it could have been the stolen money in there? Or that perhaps Gonzales and this Fanny Trux could have been working in concert? No, Gonzales would not double-cross me. He is my friend.”

I did not know if they knew about the 911 call I had put in to the cops to have Fanny and Speedy picked up on the Belt Parkway or not, or whether they found the gun on them and had them in custody. By the lopsided grins that sprouted on their faces, it seemed possible. They turned and walked back to their car, pulled a fast U-turn, and sped away. The other two cars turned off their lights and followed.

They did not even say thank you or good-bye or apologize or anything.

I stood on the shoulder of the parkway looking at the four open Scottish suitcases, the sun beating down on my collection of history books.

Hey, I am not an idiot. If my bags were searched at the border, and I had four million two hundred thousand dollars along for the ride, I would have been in deep trouble. I nailed those four Swiss crates shut and shipped the paperbacks and money to La Paz.

WHICH BRINGS US TO MY
father’s youth in La Paz. The Genealogy Consultants report told me my father’s early childhood was spent at Nuestra Señora de Cortés, at your orphanage. He was adopted by American parents when he was eight and taken to Newark, New Jersey. The hundred grand in the large package is yours to spend to improve the fate of orphans like my father.

I am here in La Paz, like a retired conquistador, writing you this note. I am on my veranda, enjoying a nice breeze and a glass of a red wine called nebbiolo. (Oddly, they do not sell cold duck here.) I can just see the topaz blue waters of the Sea of Cortés above the two houses across the street. Sorry:
a través de la calle.

You might well ask how my father—if he grew up in your orphanage—knew of this house in which I sit. Your church and buildings are quite close by, and I can see them where I sit if I turn around. Perhaps he could see this house from his window. Perhaps he imagined himself here, with the children and parents that once happily lived here. Perhaps it is all he ever wanted for himself and his family, his legacy to me.

I can also see my fountain from here, in my courtyard. I had
my family crest made by some local artisans, and they have attached it to the front. I have not found my little Mexican wife yet, but I am working on it.

Father Gomez, I hope you do not feel it necessary to reject the money in any way. Yes, the money was taken by bad men under worse circumstances—but let the money now go to a good cause, to the children of your facility. Giving money to the government or to a bank is like handing a cup of water to a whale. Besides, when things got hairy there a couple times, I promised fate that if I were spared I would give some of the money to a good cause. And what better cause than that of La Paz’s orphans, so that like my father, they may dream of and find better things in this life. I admit, my father never found himself here on this veranda, as he would have wished it. Just the same he would be very pleased with the way things have turned out. Sometimes, I think, the ends justify the dreams.